There's always those stories where people write what will happen to your family when they find your dead lifeless body after you've committed suicide.
The thing is, the mother cries and the father cries and everyone is sad and cares. Bullshit. I could never see my mom screaming and running up to my body and holding it while crying. She wouldn't care that much. My dad wouldn't shed a tear. He'd probably yell because I should have done it in the bathroom instead of staining my carpet with blood. They wouldn't be fazed. My brother would be glad I was gone.
But my dogs. They'd care more than anyone I live with. Waking up every morning, waiting for me to walk out that door....but I never do.
I cried while writing about my dogs....but not my parents. I couldn't even write about my family caring because I don't see it happening. They never would.
YOU ARE READING
Broken
PoetryA true diary... It's about my life. My stupid shitty life. The pain and misery, loneliness and depression. In real time. Real things that happen to me and real feelings and thoughts.
